5 More Characters That Never Were The Slayer
by crackers4jenn
Summary: Featuring: Barney Stinson, How I Met Your Mother; Michael Scott, The Office; Sue Sylvester, Glee; Leslie Knope, Parks and Rec; Troy Barnes and Abed Nadir, Community.


**1. Barney Stinson**,_ How I Met Your Mother._

Barney is awesome. Xander Harris, leaking his loser vibes all over Barney's mojo, is, true story, _not_ awesome.

Barney bangs a fist on their booth seated table, outraged. "I said 'suit up!' You pantsed up. In the face of a formal and for_mi_dable 'suit up!', you went and _pantsed_ up. You pantsed down, and I? Well, I am suit-offended."

But Xander is a lost cause. A man adrift in a sea of casual ware and--_oh, god_--Hawaiian t-shirts and sports shoes and jeans with holes in them. An unholy union of mismatched material that's offensive on every ocular level.

"Hey," Xander says, flexing a point-to-be-made finger, "you're lucky I pantsed anything, buddy."

Willow, sipping at her straw, wearing a sweater far more offensive than anything in Harris' closet--the frills, people, the yarn and the frills and all the wrongness gathered together in the chest area--says, "True. This is my _I'm Glad Xander's Wearing His Pants Today_ drink."

Barney pins her with a hard, scrutinizing stare. Lesser people have wilted under it. Crumbled. "Uh, yeah. That's your _I'm A Lesbian and Everyone Loves A Drunk Girl Who Makes Out with Other Drunk Girls_ drink. True story. Wrote about it on my blog. Post two-oh-two: _The Secret Behind Willow's Excessive Bronze Drinking_. Big hit, actually."

Willow gives him the sad-eyes that wield enough guilt-tripping power to render humanity to a buckled knee. But the offense lasts a mere few seconds before she decides, nah, humanity-rendering will go down some other time. Instead she breaks out into a wide grin, nods in a way that makes the flower on her hat (read it again, because _yeah_, that's what Barney's working with here: terror in accessory form, even though he has lectured against this very disservice) jiggle up and down.

"You're right. I guess I am just blatantly broadcasting my gay intent, aren't I? What with the slurpy sipping and all. Heh. _Slurpy_. Funny word."

Barney smooths out his tie. "The technical term for what you're doing, I believe, is called 'Willowing up'. To get more gay as the drink pours on. Also, there's a location factor. At the library? Not so gay. The Bronze? I believe you are more gay now than ever. Congratulations."

Just then, Harmony clickity-clacks in high heels up to their table.

"Well, well, well," says Xander, "If it isn't the Big Badless."

"Xander," Willow admonishes. "Don't."

"Too 'challenging the forces of darkness'?"

Her face carries an apology. "Was thinkin' more sorta... lame."

Harmony just gives Xander a hard stare. "Stuff it, loser."

"Ladies, ladies," Barney tuts, sliding out of the booth, "can we not, please? I've got this--" a hiss, "pounding headache, and all that nemesis blather is like glasses on an otherwise hot chick. So not necessary."

Harmony tries to look impressive by standing up taller, but all that really does is make her boobs stand out. What? He's simply looking for the sake of professional gain. He's a Slayer, she's a vampire, _hello_. Stake to the chest. That's the stitch, people, keep up.

(Also, insert 'vampire layer' joke HERE. Awesome, huh? Yeah.)

"One of these days," she predicts, voice all notched up to whiny levels of foreboding, "I'm so going to kick your ass, Barn_dork-o_!"

Barney waves a hand. "Pffft."

"'Cause guess what? I got my own gang now. And we're _evil_."

"Oh, gosh, guys, you hear that? A _gang_! Where'd you learn that, How To Fail At Being A Mortal ?" He laughs, for he is awesome, and hangs up a palm. "You-just-got-schooled high-five, c'mon! Slap it!"

Then, lo, off in the distance there's a scream, and although his methods are similar to Batman's (1. stare off into the horizon for three seconds. any less, you seem insensitive. more, now that's just cocky. 2. adorn concerned 'hero of the people' look. 3. stalk off into the night), his are generally more bad ass. That's based on a scale of 'his face' versus 'George Clooney's face'. Things get extra-bad ass on the scale of 'his face' versus 'Christian Bale's face'.

Behind the bar in some poorly lit back alley, there's a scuffle. A young, bewildered, stupid-looking college kid shoved up against the wall, vampire buzzing at his neck like an angry fly. Barney rolls his eyes at the obviousness of it all. One day the universe will realize that he's destined for more than just fisticuffs and sloppy apocalypses. Until then!

Timed for precision, it takes him 18 seconds to get the vampire off the boy, debilitate him with both a sweeping kick to the stomach and a quip, and stake him.

Ashes rain down, and Barney watches, disgusted and annoyed at the mess of it all. Is it too much to ask for a suit that is resistant to vampire dust? Really now. The future is upon us. We are nearing the age of hoverboards. Let's have it happen already.

"Dude," says the kid, wide-eyed with a trembling kind of awe. He pushes off the wall, aww, like a cute little baby deer. Run off now, Bambi. Go find your mother. "Who are you?"

Barney stands tall, tie flapping in the wind, stake brandished.

"I," he says, "am Barney. The... _waaait for it_... Vampire Slayer."

**2. Michael Scott**,_ The Office._

If you looked in a dictionary and looked up the word 'Slayer', well. There would not be a definition. Well, not a real one, because technically? No one knows about Slayers and vampires and monsters. Dragons. Things like that. And zombies--which Michael hasn't actually encountered yet, but he's willing to bet it all that they're out there, just waiting to suck a few brains. He's known a few brain-suckers in his time. Probably... zombies.

The point is, if the real definition existed in a dictionary, next to that word would be his face.

I know, wow, right?

"--And now, unsurprisingly, you're paying me no attention," Giles sighs, rubbing the creases in his forehead, and Michael lets out his own huff of annoyance.

Giles is like the most annoying person on the whole planet, which sucks, because he's his Watcher. It's not like he can get rid of him, or trade him in. He's stuck with him. Just, stuck. And who could he complain about this to? Giles? Double negative. It wouldn't make sense.

"That's because you were boring me with your big, boring speeches," Michael tells him, loud. "Beep, beep, beep. What's that? Hey. Did you hear that? Did anybody hear that? I think it was--What is that noise? Is that my... boring radar?"

Giles has reached the point where he's removed his glasses, which means there's about to be some kind of horrible lecture. The people who assigned Giles to Michael must've assigned wrong, because a Watcher, probably, should be someone that is inspiring. Someone that makes getting up every morning to be, essentially, a Superhero, fun. Michael Scott is the human equivalent of a Superhero and instead of getting a good side kick, or a good Mr. Miagi, he gets Rupert Giles. Who is Satan, but with glasses and a tweed coat.

"I hardly think you have some internal radar that instantiates boredom," Giles drones, unamused, though he is (bonus) semi-offended. "As it is, I have my own internalized radar. It detects one's inability to properly focus so that they can learn their duties as a Slayer. I imagine it'd make a sound now."

Here's a shocker: Giles is a bachelor. What a surprise! The soul-sucker can't manage to find a girlfriend stupid enough to go out with him.

Putting his glasses back on, Giles picks up the book he'd been reading from. Some ancient tome that has all sorts of words in it that automatically make Michael's mind drift to more entertaining things. Like his idea of mass marketing the idea of a 'Vampire Slayer' that Giles had, of course, outright ruled against because he was _repressed_ and _boring_. What's so wrong with Vampire Slayer pencil erasers? And lunch boxes? And Vampire Slayer costumes? Then everyone could be just like Michael. They could take on his Michael Scott Vampire Slayer Cause For Humanity Reach For Your Dreams Because They're Out There complex, but for fake, not for real.

Michael picks up his _World's Best Vampire Slayer_ mug and takes a thirsty sip. He bought that for himself. Well, ten of them. There was a good deal on buying bulk at the online shop he ordered it from. Custom-made.

Giles clears his throat.

"Fine, fine, _fine_," Michael sighs, straightening. "Hit me with it, Watch-dog. Give me your worst. _Hit me_!"

Once Giles starts talking though, Michael zones off and ignores him.

How cool does this sound: _Michael Scarn: Threat Level Twilight_?

It's about those vampires from that RPattz movie. With the wolf, and the vampires, and that West Side Story baseball game. And how Michael Scarn defeats them all using his wiles, smarts, and a bazooka gun loaned from the President. Plus the FBI. Well--no. Or, maybe. That part's still in the negotiation stage. But definitely the Michael Scarn character beats up Edward and Jacob, and then dazzles Bella with his sense of humor and improv skills.

The age difference is a little weird, because the Michael Scarn character is based loosely on Michael himself, but Michael figures: babies having babies. That's what they say, and they must say it for a reason, so.

S'_all_ good.

**3. Sue Sylvester**,_ Glee._

Dear Journal,

Here I am, on the cusp of an Apocalypse, and I find myself feeling listless. Ran into Spike on patrol tonight. If there's anything in this world that I am by instinct against, Journal, it's a man with hair his color. The punishing shade of society's combined sins. What does it mean? Is there more to it than a slight on my vision? Is it the ugly stench of flaccidity that makes it so revolting?

I've begun to realize that I am fighting a useless and misogynistic battle against Rupert Giles. It burns, Journal. It's a burning in my stomach lining. He's a house of cards that needs to be blown over, like a gust of wind overturning a life boat of Mexican smugglers trying to steal their way into this country. Illegal drugs and burritos and small children, all overboard, salting the ocean with their tears and failure. He's a wild card, Journal, and I wouldn't put it past him to sabotage me. Jealousy. That's what taints the cord between us, what feeds this gnawing feeling in my gut that he is conspiring against me.

Evidence: listlessness.

Journal, I am young, I am spry. I've got the bone mass of a freakishly muscled four year-old. I don't get listless. I don't get anything that has the word 'less' in it. That's the difference between me and Rupert Giles. And yet, here I am, apathetic. An emotion only compounded by the fact that ADIDAS stopped making the polyester, shape-hugging track suits I love so much. If we are a country unwilling to force lesser countries into advocating child labor, what are we good for? What is the fight about?

Slayed a vampire today. I barely felt the burn of satisfaction that usually washes over me like waves corroding the dense coastline of one of those third world America's, and without that burn, I'm a fraud in my own bronzed skin. It's a pill I refuse to swallow, Journal. A pill I'd like to regurgitate onto the pressed collar of Rupert Giles' coat.

Another day, Journal.

**4. Leslie Knope**,_ Parks and Recreation._

"My biggest fight right now," Leslie says to the cameras, rearranging the holy water on her desk (as a Slayer, she insists she be treated the same way you would treat anyone else. Just, she can save your life. So naturally her desk should be the biggest. It's also why the cameras are there. The Slayer thing.) "--isn't vampires, or demons, or some Apocalypse looming in the horizon that has the whole town glued to CNN, worried and scared and wondering where I am. No. Literally, my biggest fight right now is the Watcher's Council."

(Cut to Leslie arguing with Quentin Travers:

"Ms. Knope, I am not going to advocate a global _SPS_ system," he is adamant, stuffing a handkerchief in his fancy dress coat pocket while they walk along. They glide quickly and easily past the Translations Department, which is good. Leslie had a weird, existential life crisis in the form of an uncharacteristic one-night stand with a man in there. Wesley Wyndam-Pryce. Just thinking his name gives her hot flashes and dry mouth, even though it's been three years.

The sexy times, people, were quite sexy, if you know what I mean. I think you do.

Back in the non-scandalous real world, she says, "And frankly, Mr. Travers--can I express myself frankly?"

"By all means."

"Frankly, sir. I think you're making a really crappy choice."

"Do you? Why is that so unsurprising," he muses on a sigh.

"The SPS," she says, then explains to the cameras with a salespitch-worthy smile, "the Slayer Positioning System," and feels as always a swell of pride at the mention of it because, everyone, it's an amazing system, it's life-changing, your whole world will be blown open, "should be instituted in home's across the world. And cars. And cellphones. And those microchips they put inside animals, but only if that's as humane as they say it is because I don't want unjust pain for the sake of a really good cause. The SPS is a really good cause."

They stop walking (stopped in front of the water fountain near the South Wing entrance and, dammit. She once shared an awkward conversation post-coital with Wesley there. The memories are a'flow today.) and Quentin gives her his full attention.

"Let's say I amuse the idea. The mere fraction of possibility."

Which might as well be _This idea, Leslie, it's the best anyone's ever had! Green-lighted, baby!_ because it's what she hears.

Victorious, she pumps her fist. "Awesome! Tell your friends," she tells the cameras, "SPS system. 2010. We're going global!"

Some noisy, stuffy British noises, and then, "Hypothetical, Ms. Knope."

"I _know_ that," she covers. Not going to lie. Her dreams deflate a little. "Psssssh. Theoretical selling was what you just saw. That's what that was. A taste--no, a _flavor_ of my totally theoretical but still artistically valid infomercial."

"Your dream is to market this idea in the vile form of an infomercial?"

"My real marketing plans are much broader. Larry King, Anderson Cooper. That scale. But I also don't want to alienate people, so I'm going to branch out to everyone. Fox News, Chinese Oprah, infomercials. Those giant TVs in Times Square. Everything."

"Perhaps it's because the idea seems so preposterous to me, but explain again what the benefits of an SPS system would be. I seem to have forgotten, or rather, misplaced them. We are preparing to fight a Hell God, you know."

And her face glows with joy. "Well, basically, it's emergency-based. You know how Batman has that bat signal?"

Quentin lets out a low, loose breath, starts walking again. "Ms. Knope, I don't have to remind you you're referencing fiction, do I?"

"Yeah, well, open up your stodgy British eyes. I'm sorry, that was offensive. But the real world sucks!" He shoots her a chastising glance. "Stinks. It's a giant, reeking world out there right now, like a garbage can of pain and suffering and evil, only there's no odor-locking Hefty bags to keep things fresh."

"How poetic."

"So, boom, people have the SPS in their house. Or their car. Or _anywhere_," she says, "that's the beauty of this system! Like, okay, let's say there's an emergency."

"What _kind_ of emergency? Cat in the tree, Ms. Knope?"

"Hah _hah_. No. Like, grrrr! _Vampires_ and _demons_ and _trolls_. I'm talking non-localized attacks, outside the perimeter of Sunnydale. How would I know? _Unless_," she smiles, "someone had an SPS system!"

"That will, what? Broadcast a silhouette of a vampire upon the sky, I presume?"

They've reached his office. He gives a tense smile to Andrew, his secretary, then unlocks his door.

"Ms. Knope, while commendable, ultimately, I'm afraid, your idea is unfeasible. I'm sorry. My answer remains unchanged."

"But--!"

He shuts the door after him, in her face.)

To the camera, serious-faced at her desk, "I'm pitching for a SPS system and literally, I am not giving up until grandmas everywhere can feel secure at night knowing they bought my product. Or kids or at-risk teens. _Anyone_. It's a cause I will back up my whole life, if I have to."

Her smile comes back, big.

"Leslie Knope," she says. "Vampire Slayer."

**5. Troy Barnes and Abed Nadir**,_ Community._

Abed stands watch while Troy sits on top of a mausoleum, stake twirling between his fingers. It's a slow evening.

"Know who I dreamed I was last night? Batman."

"Cool."

"It was, 'cause I was me, but I was him, and 'cause I had on the cape and everything. Then I woke up and it made me think about how we don't have capes. Abed, how come we don't have capes?"

"Wind resistance, I think. It'd slow us down."

"Not if we ran fast, like _twice_ as fast."

"True."

"We should get capes."

"Yeah."

"Something cool."

"Cool."

Troy pushes off the mausoleum, lands beside Abed. "What about masks?"

"For patrol?"

"'Cause then we'd look like Superheroes."

"Aren't we already Superheroes? Except if we were, I would've been bitten by a spider and you'd come from Krypton."

"So ask yourself this: how come we don't have a cape then? Or a mask?"

Abed shrugs. "Too commercialized."

"I think that means something bad, but I'm okay with it."

There's a passing moment of silence, broken only by the sound of wind rubbing tree branches together. And then:

"We should have our own theme song, too."

"What kind? Instrumental, like MASH, or lyrical, like Charles in Charge?"

Troy gives Abed the _You're talking weird again_ eyes. It's a well-worn look.

Abed explains, "I watch Nick at Nite a lot."

"I don't know," Troy says, thinking it over. "I just want a theme song that covers what we do."

"Night stalking."

"Night butt-kicking."

"Night lurking."

"Night fighting."

"Night saving."

"Night standing around."

"Night talking."

"You sound like Batman," Troy marvels.

"Do I? Cool. Cool, cool."

It's a very slow evening.


End file.
